Gary Numan at the Santa Ana Observatory

April 10, 2026

What you can expect from the Gary Numan concert is not nostagia, but good music, an inventive light show, and an adoring crowd. Rather than lean of an oldies setlist of hits, the band brought a cabaret of decadence and industrial decay. What? Hear me out. Most casual listeners who hear the name Gary Numan think "Cars", that international hit from the late '70s. They usually add, Whatever happened to him? Well, he experimented with with Synth Rock, Industrial Metal, collaborated with artists from Siouxsie Sioux (Siouxsie and the Banshees) to Robert Fripp (King Crimson), and eventually incorporated all those sounds into one big sound, sort of an Industrial Synch, to play all his setlist songs with. Whether it's Cars from 1979's The Pleasure Principle, or Love Hurt Bleed from 2013's Splinter, it was set to Industrial Synch, and it was a perfect fit, as it it were written to be played that way.

Add to that the brilliant light show, with each song getting its own version of light, shadow, and darkness. From strobes to color saturation, no song had the same lighting. Which brings us to the "caberet" setting. Those lyrics, the poses against the strobe lights, the sensual interplay between the bassist and the guitarist. It was confusing enough that they both were the same shape and height, wore the same black outfits, and had shaved heads, but when they squirmed together like a caduceus, it was had to tell who was who. And Gary Numan played the perfect host, letting his songs do the talking. 

I saw this line-up earlier this year open for Robby Krieger and loved the show so much, I wanted to see them play the headliner role. But this time out, the crowd was there for Gary Numan. They knew about his evolution from Synch Rock to Industrial Synch and showed up to enjoy it. Every time Gary Numan paused to take a swig of water, the crowd roared his name over and over. It was that kind of show. Modern. No one came for the nostalgia. It was about the evolution of that artist named Gary Numan, and we just wanted to be there to be a part of it.  

1. Halo Jagged 2006
2. Metal The Pleasure Principle 1979
3. Haunted Jagged 2006
4. Everything Comes Down to This Splinter 2013
5. Films The Pleasure Principle 1979
6. Is This World Not Enough Intruder 2021
7, M.E. The Pleasure Principle 1979
8. Here in the Black Splinter 2013
9. Ghost Nation Savage 2017
10. Love Hurt Bleed Splinter 2013
11. Cars The Pleasure Principle 1979
12. The Fall Dead Son Rising 2011
13. The Chosen Intruder 2021
14. A Prayer for the Unborn Pure 2000
15. Are 'Friends' Electric? Tubeway Army 1979
Encore:
16. The Gift Intruder 2021
17. My Name Is Ruin Savage 2021

 

Signalz: Canon or Subatomic Fanfiction? 

Not a Review by Anthony Servante

Signalz: An Adversary Cycle Novel by F. Paul Wilson

Twilight has come. Night will follow.

It will begin in the heavens and end in the Earth.

But before that…the rules will be broken.

The Change is coming, and the world as we know it is ending. Sixteen-year-old Ellie has changed. She looks the same, but her mother detects someone else looking out through her blue eyes. Ellie builds a "shelter" in her room with an entrance that leads...elsewhere.

And what of the convoy of tractor trailers Hari Tate watches drive up a mountain road and return without the trailers...leaving nothing on the mountain. What are they shipping?

And the writer who finds a hole in the floor of his NYC apartment and tumbles through into...elsewhere.

They will all find each other and find their answers in the electromagnetic pulses piercing the Earth from Out There, pulses that no one should hear, but some do. But they are not simply pulses. They are Signalz.

Nightworld by F. Paul Wilson

The end of the world begins at dawn, when the sun rises later than it should. Then the holes appear. The first forms in Central Park, within sight of an apartment where Repairman Jack and a man as old as time watch with growing dread. Gaping holes, bottomless and empty…until sundown, when the first unearthly, hungry creatures appear.

Nightworld brings F. Paul Wilson’s Adversary Cycle and Repairman Jack saga to an apocalyptic finale as Jack and Glaeken search the Secret History to gather a ragtag army for a last stand against the Otherness and a hideously transformed Rasalom.

*****

The Non-Review

F. Paul Wilson crafted five stories that coalesced to create a single story, which we've come to know as the Adversary Cycle. However, even after the cycle completed, Paul found spaces between the stories where he could fit more stories. Nightworld initially  concluded the cycle with an end of the world scenario: Monsters crawl from a giant hole in the Earth to wreak havoc on the population. As a fan of the AC, I often wondered about the possible stories that never reached the pages of the AC, the stories of the secondary characters whose timeline was never resolved or mentioned again. I even considered writing a fan fiction about a certain bartender who along with his patrons defend the bar against an onslaught of creature, big and small. Well, instead of wrapping up loose ends on the AC, Paul has created new characters to fill a space right before Nightworld. So, is this canon or fan-fiction? 

Let's talk about this.

In the subatomic world of particles, quantum physics is always finding new quanta, combinations of particles that intertwine to a point where something new is created, being neither one nor the other, but both at once where one can't determine which was which before they combined. In other words, the five ,books by F. Paul Wilson, The Keep, The Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, and Nightworld, (referred to as the Adversary Cycle) may have been a done deal at the start, but these stories have combined to create "quanta", new stories that occupy the spaces between books, but are not either book; they are something new. But where does it stop? Because within the new are ever-emerging quanta, ad infinitum. 

Between this book and that book, we got a new book that sort of combines those books into a whole new story, while continuing the old book and foreshadowing the following book. Not that the stories are bad. Actually, they're good. F. Paul Wilson is a master at spinning several plates in the air with one hand while typing a new quanta on his laptop. Forgive the mixed metaphors. 

Let's continue.

The minutia of plots within plots is never-ending. As long as stories can fit between the spaces of other stories, the original story cannot end. Such then do we find ourselves with Signalz. There is still quantum space enough between Signalz and Nightworld for several more books. If there were enough time and inspiration. Ah, if only Paul were as immortal as his muse. 

 

Sky Tongues (2011) by Gina Ranalli
Reviewed by Anthony Servante

Welcome once again to the darkness with your host, Anthony Servante. In this, our sixth venture into horror, the grotesque, and their various branches of literary genres, we explore the ‘absurd’ and “Bizarro Literature” today. We will analyze “Sky Tongues” by Gina Ranalli and deconstruct its elements of absurdism and try to define the term ‘bizarro’ as it applies to literature. Right off, let me say that today’s use of the word, ‘absurd’, as ridiculous or exaggerated, is not the philosophical definition I am discussing here, where it is closer to ‘meaninglessness’ or nihilism, but when combined with the comically ironic that relies on a suspension of disbelief, it becomes bizarre. Quite simply, Sky Tongues, the character, is real in a bizarre universe that we can enter and share when we don’t accept it as real or validate its existence. But we can visit anytime just by opening the pages of Ranalli’s book again and again.

Let’s begin with Albert Camus, who helped define absurdism in his existentialist writings. He stresses that the absurd is the realization that the universe is without order, that man’s quest for meaning is endless and futile. He says, “The Absurd arises out of the fundamental disharmony between the individual's search for meaning and the apparent meaninglessness of the universe” (Wikipedia). But Philip Thompson in The Critical Idiom series, The Grotesque (1972), clarifies that Camus believes that in the ‘search’ for meaning, there is meaning; the journey, not the destination, is real, and the opposite of real is absurdity, such as one finding meaning in religion, love or in just being alive (suicide for Camus is not a solution for meaninglessness as suicide itself is an absurdity). So, let’s clarify. Absurdity is that which does not make sense, but the quest for truth in absurdity is valid, as long as answers are not reached. Thus, the question: Does life have meaning? is not limited to answering yes or no. We can simply recognize the question itself as absurd and consider other answers in addition to the negative or positive, including the grotesque possibilities, such as life is but a dream or nightmare.

The ‘bizarre’, Thompson notes, is the disharmonic elements clashing, similar to his definition of ‘the grotesque’ but with an absurd apportionment; the grotesque is revolting and frightening, but the bizarre is “eerie and comical”. Camus sums up the balance in this disharmony as freedom from a need for harmony: “By accepting the Absurd, one can achieve absolute freedom, and that by recognizing no religious or other moral constraints and by revolting against the Absurd while simultaneously accepting it as unstoppable, one could possibly be content from the personal meaning constructed in the process.” To embrace the bizarre liberates the subjective need for order. It becomes an ongoing process, a journey, a progression.

Thus Bizarro Literature must include elements in conflict but in subjective harmony and acceptance. Consider the world of animation. In the movie, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (1988), Eddie Valiant’s brother is killed by a piano being dropped on him in Toontown, but when Eddie visits the animated town, and rides the lightning quick elevator operated by Droopy, he is flattened like a pancake at the bottom of the elevator floor, like a cartoon. Why isn’t he killed by the flattening? His brother was killed by a cartoon piano. Are the physical rules of Toontown variant? Do they apply differently to different people or are they constant? One could argue that in a cartoon world, there are no rules, and therein lies the crux of the matter. To find order in a cartoon is to give absurdity validity. To argue that toons can or cannot kill is a fallacy begging a conclusion. We are talking Roger Rabbit, folks. There is no answer, but seeking one gives one a greater enjoyment of the movie, itself a disharmony with its animated characters and the real actors blended into the same story. When we suspend our disbelief, the disharmony becomes harmonic and subjectively entertaining, but objectively, it is bizarre—just as bizarre as if Roger Rabbit, or better yet, Jessica Rabbit, walked right into the room like any flesh and blood creature or person and interacted with you. Some may be amazed, others horrified.

Which brings us to Sky Tongues by Gina Ranalli. The novel is a series of disharmonious elements coalescing into a bizarre world where we find ourselves accepting the absurdities as subjectively valid as we would a novel with harmonious elements. For instance, in Peyton Place (1956), “the main plot follows the lives of three women—lonely and repressed Constance MacKenzie; her illegitimate daughter Allison; and her employee Selena Cross, a girl from across the tracks, or "from the shacks." The novel describes how they come to terms with their identity as women and sexual beings in a small New England town. Hypocrisy, social inequities and class privilege are recurring themes in a tale that includes incest, abortion, adultery, lust and murder” (Wiki). We do not question such goings on in the “soap opera” town; we accept it without question, but when we approach the same themes in a world where disharmony reigns, the absurd is the standard, and to question it itself becomes absurd. To accept it is to accept the bizarre and its rules of chaos, an oxymoron in essence.

Gina Ranalli offers her own brand of the bizarre in Sky Tongues (ST). The story of a Mue (mutant) in a world of norms, mues and countless other humanoid and nonhumanoid characters, ST is the real world presented in absurdist fashion. Sky is an Outie, born inside out, with Tongues for fingers and toes. On the meaningful side, ST is the Horatio Alger-ish autobiography of a person’s rise from poverty, abuse and alienation to fame, wealth and power. On the other side, it is a fantastical world of environmental corruption and its pervasion of the human DNA pool—in other words, a world of mutations: people who are born inside-out, transparent, multi and single limbed, coated by shark skin, and many other variations of mutated humans. But this is not a story of fantasy, of science fiction, where the focus of the story is on the reasons and results of the polluted world, and in the solution to this “problem” comes a return of the DNA to ‘normal’ expectations for a happy ending to the human race. Instead, the focus of ST is on the ‘soap opera’ reality of a young girl tossed into a world she wasn’t ready for and her trials and tribulations in conquering this world. The bizarre DNA background is there like clothing on a character, but the story is character driven, not based on the bizarre circumstances or in what she’s wearing.

To tell Sky’s tale is to speak of human problems. Her father resents her for being an Outie, born inside out, yet he loves his son who was born with a glossy shark skin sleeker than his dad’s. We can parallel the description of skins throughout the book as metaphors for Blacks, Latinos, Anglos, Asians, etc, but that shifts the counterbalance of comical and eerie to “real” again and the flavor of the bizarre is lost. We are talking about Sky Tongues, a hermaphrodite who traverses two worlds, a famous Mue who exists between the world of accepted mutants and rejected ones. It would be too easy to simply say that Sky represents the story of a girl who goes to Hollywood seeking fame and encounters trouble and redemption. It reduces the bizarre effect. It is the story of a Mue who goes to Hollywood; it is the story of many Mues and non-mues living their lives in their world. Theirs is the Peyton Place of mutants, not the metaphor for humans in a soap opera.

So, Bizarro Literature utilizes disharmonic elements that create a world that can only be entered by a suspension of disbelief because the absurd structure (another oxymoron) requires a unquestioning journey into “real” lands in unreal places, for it is not “getting it” or making sense of it that makes Sky Tongues a unique and valuable read for fans of horror and beauty but the journey one takes in reading it without question or assigning it a value that makes Sky Tongues a remarkable accomplishment by Gina Ranalli in both Bizarro and literary fiction. I look forward to reading the rest of her books, many of which I’ve already placed in my library.

If you have found today’s Servante of Darkness a bit bizarre, then good—you understand. Thank you for coming today, dear readers. Sky Tongues can be purchased in paper or ebook at Amazon.com here

One last footnote about Bizarro Literature as I believe Camus may have considered it:
“For Camus, it is the beauty which people encounter in life that makes it worth living. People may create meaning in their own lives, which may not be the objective meaning of life (if there is one), but can still provide something for which to strive. However, he insisted that one must always maintain an ironic distance between this invented meaning and the knowledge of the absurd, lest the fictitious meaning take the place of the absurd”
(source: Wikipedia).

Sky Tongues creates its world and maintains its irony for the reader to enjoy as he would a bizarre journey.

Until next month, stay cool in the darkness.

--Anthony Servante

 

The Face of Pain by Tim Waggoner

Critiqued by Anthony Servante

The Summary:

THE DOCTORS SAID IT WAS CANCER,
BUT TRICIA KNEW THE THING INSIDE
HER WAS SOMETHING FAR WORSE

Tricia Everheart is diagnosed with uterine cancer, but despite
her test results, she can’t escape the feeling that she’s not
sick-she’s pregnant. When a mysterious red door appears in
the hospital, she steps through and finds herself trapped in a
nightmarish facility called the Red Tower.
There, a cult of sinister physicians known as the Physickers
worship a foul entity known as the Face of Pain… and they
believe Tricia is its chosen vessel. Her husband, Aaron,
Follows her into the Red Tower, desperate to bring her home.
But the deeper they go, the more they encounter horrors
Beyond comprehension.
Will they escape the Red Tower before the Face of Pain
enters our reality? Or will its birth unravel existence itself?

The Critique:

Horror is a place where you go inside the realm of words. Just ask Tim Waggoner. His place is hued, scented; it has temperature, and it is welcoming. It is also the spectrum of emotion, from fear to fancy, from loathing to love. You know of what I speak: Those dream worlds you visit in sleep, where nightmare and stream of consciousness build walls, towns, and homes, places you are familiar with, places where you've lived many, many times, lived in places with people you've known as long as you can remember, though they are but strangers and and the places unknown locations--except in dream and in well-written horror stories. We get caught up inside the Horror to the point where we forget it's just a book.

 

When Tricia Everheart realizes she is in the red place, there was no entrance or exit, only existence. She is already there when we, the reader, meet her and first visit the place. And this is our experience, too; we are just there, though you may say that you opened the page and closed the page, still, you are there without pages. That's Tim Waggoner's gift; He creates places that take us there and stay with us, crowding our dream and nightmare space with equal authority, long after we've read the story. But there is something else that accompanies the visit, the knowledge that we, the reader, know that this is not only where "Horror" with a capital h resides; it is also horror itself that we are visiting, not just a story. And it's a joy to get lost there. 

Tim Waggoner has a knack for writing such Horror. In The Face of Pain, he has laid out the welcome mat for you to visit a beautifully hellish place. Try not to let it get too deep in your head. Just try. 

 

Funereal Plots

Horror Cinema reviews

Matthew M. Bartlett

Bodycam

Director: Brandon Christensen

Writers: Brandon Christensen and Ryan Cristenden

Not to be confused with Mary J. Blige police procedural Body Cam (2020), 2026’s Bodycam is yet another found footage movie, with the wrinkle suggested in the title. Our two protagonists (maybe anti-protagonists?) are Officer Jackson (Jaime M. Callica) and Officer Bryce (Sean Rogerson). The movie jumps right in as the pair are called to investigate a possible domestic abuse call. The streets are littered with tents and homeless people, and the house is a wreck. Notably, their radios and phones fail within the confines of the house.

In short order we see occult symbols and a massive well, a mutilated dog in a bathtub, and creepy people. One of the latter is carrying a bundle and charges rather supernaturally at Officer Bryce, who shoots the man and the bundle, which turns out to be a baby. A witness to this, a blood-soaked woman, digs into her throat with a bottle. 

Officer Bryce, whose wife is, of course, expecting, is desperate to erase the bodycam footage. To that end, along with the pleading Jackson, he goes to an army/navy store, apparently open 24 hours, where in the basement works a technical wizard character exclusive to movies like this, who can alter or delete footage. They play the footage. The technical wizard hears one of the creepy people say the word “Underman” and she kicks out the officers.

After fending off a barricade of street people who keep uttering the phrase “You took something from him, now he’ll take something from you”, they end up at a shelter run by Jackson’s mother, where more street people lurk, issuing the same threat. Meanwhile, Officer Bryce begins to hallucinate. Or at least that’s what the camera shows.

Ultimately, Officer Bryce shoots himself and Officer Jackson, in a very effective scene, seems to run into the house they first entered at every turn, even in the heart of the city, that same house with two lit-up windows on the second floor, until every building on the street is the house. We end with a burst of street people and a creature that may well be CGI but also could be AI, a many-armed Underman who, I can’t be sure, either wants people to descend, or to rise.

Bodycam plays out like a too-long outtake from the VHS anthology movie series. Its leads are effective, its atmosphere decently decrepit, its politics as muddled as its fictional mythology. The movie seems to want to duck accusations of using homeless addicts as villains by having Officer Jackson’s mother get mad when he calls them “tweakers.” It’s still, eh, iffy. Especially as characters in the credits have names like “Tommy the Tweaker” and “Tabitha the Tweaker.”

The last scenes in the movie, with Jackson moving about the interior of the house, look depressingly like a first-person shooter video game with a gun-wielding arm angled in from offscreen. There’s a brief but unmistakable homage to The Blair Witch Project, a denouement with more officers showing up at the house, a few people being dragged violently and quickly offscreen (de riguer in movies of late, and very much overdone), and another lunge at the screen from our AI Underman.

Bodycam is at least entertaining. Maybe it would have been better as a 20-minute VHS segment, however.

 

 

The Listed

Chapter Three

Miguel Winter slugged the alarm clock at 5:00 a.m. exactly, a micro-second before the buzzer sounded. The clock flew across the room and slammed against the wall as he sat up in bed. He yawned and scratched his face; he needed to shave. Damn morning again, he grunted. Damn clock. He'll have to buy a new one after work, one that didn't wake him up, one of those that tell time but don't buzz or wail or ring. 

Shaving took all of eight minutes; he had the bloody toilet paper wads to prove it. Men with craggy faces know his pain. So do women with craggy legs, he laughed. No wonder he was divorced twice, with no prospects in the foreseeable future. Like any good single man, he prepared his own breakfast: black coffee and black toast. He skimmed the morning newspaper, but stopped to read the latest on the Campus Killer. The bastard had claimed another victim. 

Number twelve, if memory served. College girls, blonde, attractive. Met with the killer on campus most likely, thus the name, and its seems the vics knew the person, which would account for trust issue. Why would the vics go with the killer?! He either knew him or trusted him. Maybe they did some escort work on the side to supplement their income. After all, higher education was expensive these days. Seems the police weren't pursuing that angle though, at least according to the paper. 

And maybe the girls just deserved it. He understood that motive. His exes sure understood that motive. He didn't mind putting them in their place if they questioned his whereabouts. Maybe the killer was doing everyone a favor. In his heart, he felt an affinity with this motive the killer may have. 

He imagined wetting a small towel and rolling it into a "rat's tail". Think you're better than me, college girl? He laughed at his morbid thoughts. Better get to work and write that article that will win me the Pulitzer Prize. 

The Editor called Miguel into his office as soon as he walked in. "I have a good reason for being late," lied Miguel.

"Who cares?!" Dennis Butler snarled. He handed the hungover reporter a piece of paper with a name and address on it. "Go here, interview that person, come back here, and write me second page piece on the Campus Killer."

"Now?" Miguel wondered. He hadn't even checked his messages. 

"Now! Everything can wait. You want the story or not."

Miguel nodded like an idiot. 

"Then get the fuck outta here."

Miguel didn't even notice that he was headed for Maitelin University to talk with the Head of the Psychology Department. For some reason, that gave him chills. 

The Seven Orbs

Chapter One

Wisdom and Winsome

4.

Wisdom, of the Jenri Clan, was 10 years old. His older brother was Winsome, just two years elder, he liked to say, and his mother, Jade, made up the Jenri home. The young lad never knew his father, but his mother was strong of body and spirit, both mother and father to the two lads. Wisdom was too young to remember the War of the Three Kings, but he always favored and loved King Terria, and couldn't wait to grow to manhood so that he could join the King's Guard. He placed his tiny hand over the wooden sword he kept tied to his side, just as the soldiers wore their weapons. 

From his hiding place in the Counsel Chambers, he heard the heated exchange between the two Governors and the King. When all the shouting was done, all but The Counsel remained. In whispers loud enough for the young boy to hear, the words "What have we done?' were heard. Then footsteps and the chambers door was shut. The Counsel had left. From behind the curtains, Wisdom emerged and saw the great throne of the King before him. He circled the great seat of power and plopped himself upon the chair. "I am King," he announced to the empty room, then looked around cautiously as he didn't mean to speak so loudly. He bowed his head as if to a mighty knight, removed his wooden sword from the handmade hilt his mother made for him, and tapped the wooden blade on each of the knight's shoulders. "Rise now, brave warrior, a worthy King's Guardsman." 

Someone was at the door, so Wisdom darted back behind the curtains, found the vent leading to a series of larger passageways, which in turn led outside the castle. It was a secret tunnel system used by the Queen to hide the children and provide them escape during the War of the Three Kings. His mother told him the story of how the Queen had helped her escape that night the castle was under siege and how she saw the terrifying dragon defend the castle of the attackers. That battle alone changed the tide of the War and placed King Terria on the throne as the sole King of the Three Kingdoms. He wondered who had entered the Counsel Chambers. 

Captains and Lovers

5.

Alone in the Chambers, Theo and Abora embraced. Theo broke the silence, "So, it's war."

"Yes." She grew sad as Theo pushed away from her. 

"Then this will be the last time we meet," he said.

"Don't lose hope. Please don't lose hope." She tried to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away. 

"You lead your father's forces in The East, I, Captain of the King's Guard. What little hope I had was to meet you once more before we meet on the battlefield. I knew the day was coming. The freedom of The East and The West was always at hand. It was my father who wouldn't, no, couldn't accept it. His Guardsmen, his Wizard, that damned Dragon. He always believed that this made him invincible. Warriors, magic, and that demon beast won him the kingship all those years ago, and they've kept the peace all these years. His pride brings to war." Theo dropped into the throne.

"Theo," Abora scolded him, "don't disrespect your father's throne."

"Wood and Iron don't make a throne," he answered. "The man does." He gazed into Abora's teary eyes. "Father would have loved you, would have loved his grandkids."

"Don't speak of the future as if it were past." She grabbed Theo's hand and pulled him up from the throne. "There's still a small chance. If the War should be short, maybe we could still...".

"Still what?" he asked when she couldn't even finish her sentence. "Have hope?"

"Don't laugh at our one chance," she said, wiping away the tears she could no longer control. "My father and Governor Aquell have been busy these past years. Blacksmiths, carpenters, engineers, and more men tearing up the forest, dragging the river, hammering and clanging into the night, every night. They are building. What? I do not know. The Forces of The East, my warriors, know not what machines are being readied. But we will soon know, when they are ready."

"What machines can stop a dragon?"

"Please, let's escape to the mountains." Abora pressed her face and cheek into Theo's chest. "Let them destroy themselves. We'll start anew." 

"Where's your hope, now, my love? We cannot abandon our duties, or our fathers. What life could we start together without their blessings?" Theo's words sounded hollow. Even he did not believe them. As much as his heart yearned to run off to the mountains with Abora, he knew he wouldn't nor would she. "I once abandoned my duties for love when I was younger, but that was but fancy. Ours is true, and there's our hope. That we may survive to rekindle what this war would take from us." 

"To a short war, then, Theo, my prince," Abora said. 

Abora hooded her head to hide her identity as Theo escorted her out of the castle. But it wasn't hope or love that filled his thoughts. It was Abora's concern. The machines.

Coming soon

The Guardsmen Grumble

6

Coming soon

The King and The Prince

7

 

The House at Black Tooth Pond

Reviewed by Anthony Servante

The Author

Stephen Mark Rainey is the author of numerous novels, including BALAK, THE LEBO COVEN, DARK SHADOWS: DREAMS OF THE DARK (with Elizabeth Massie), BLUE DEVIL ISLAND, THE HOUSE AT BLACK TOOTH POND, and others, including several in Elizabeth Massie's Ameri-Scares Series for Young Readers. In addition, Mark's work includes six short story collections; over 200 published works of short fiction; and the scripts for several DARK SHADOWS audio productions, which feature members of the original ABC-TV series cast. For ten years, he edited the multi-award-winning DEATHREALM magazine and, most recently, the best-selling anthology, DEATHREALM: SPIRITS (Shortwave Publishing). He has also edited anthologies for Delirium Press, Chaosium, and Arkham House. Mark lives in Martinsville, VA, with his wife, Kimberly, and a passel of precocious house cats. He is a regular panelist on the weekly Lovecraft eZine Podcast and an active member of the Horror Writers Association.

A Summary

AIKEN MILL, VIRGINIA… A legend-haunted town in Sylvan County, located in a remote, mountainous corner of the state. With its long history of countless deaths and disappearances, Aiken Mill has become known to law enforcement as “The Cold Case Capital of the World.”

Now, an unidentified, mutilated body has turned up in the town. During his investigation, Sheriff Bryce Parrott discovers frightening clues that lead him to believe some ghostly force—or entity—may be responsible for the killing.

While exploring the darkest corners of Sylvan County, psychology professor Martin Pritchett and his brother, Phillip, happen upon a crumbling, century-old house beside a body of water called Black Tooth Pond. A strange compulsion leads both men back to the house time and time again, but neither can remember any of the events that occur there.

As both Sheriff Parrott and the Pritchett brothers attempt to solve their respective mysteries, their paths begin to converge—paths that lead inexorably to the ancient, foreboding house at Black Tooth Pond.

The Critique

Stephen Mark Rainey writes literary horror like it's nonfiction. Don't get me wrong. His work is fiction, but the story structure, the characters, and the believable supernatural aspects just seem real. It's this realism that elevates Rainey's stories to a literary level.  

Rainey employs a classic three act story structure that is tight and well developed, with each act driving the story to the next act with seamless transition. And not just seamless but suspenseful and damn entertaining as well. Most horror novels tend to save the third act for the major frights, but Rainey makes three acts seem like one, building tension and suspense in equal measure from the first page to the last. 

And by the time you get to the end, you are invested in the lives of each of the story's characters and how they intertwine with each other, as well as the supernatural element. You care just as much about their personal problems as you do with their connections to the horror aspects. You cheer them on to succeed personally and narratively. You care who will live and who will die. You watch lives unfold amidst a growing mystery. In other words, these characters are real to the reader.

Not only do you meet real people, you travel to real places, scary houses, foggy lakes, as well as bachelor pads that feel like what a bachelor would live in. That's how well-written this horror narrative is. It is real, verisimilitude real. When the monster finally appears, we're there too. 

I see other reviews calling this Lovecraftian. I think we're past calling Mark Stephen Rainey's work "Lovecraftian". It's time to use the more applicable moniker: Raineyan, for Real Horror.

Funereal Plots

Horror Cinema reviews

Matthew M. Bartlett

Honey Bunch

Writer/Director: Madeleine Sims-Fewer and Dusty Mancinelli


At the beginning of Honey Bunch, Homer (Ben Petrie) takes his wife Diana (Grace Glowicki) from her wheelchair and carries her into the ocean. He tells her he loves her, then lowers her into the roiling waters.

Cut to earlier days. The pair are driving through woods on a sunny day. Grace looks healthier than in the opening scene, but evinces memory loss issues and confusion—we learn that the couple was in a car accident. They arrive at an experimental trauma center. Then the fun begins.

Honey Bunch is a throwback in the best way. It’s shot like the cinema that of earlier decades that it frequently (and overtly) references. There are touches of The Stepford Wives, Rebecca, even Don’t Look Now. Paranoia reigns as Diana catches Homer in secretive conversations with the head of therapy, sees an enigmatic blonde figure staring at her, and the fleeing into the woods. All of this is deepened and made more real by flashbacks of the characters arguing and being silly with one another.

The plot thickens as new arrival Josephina (India Brown), accompanied by her father Joseph (Jason Isaacs), meet the couple and begin her therapy, with her father’s vocal and enthusiastic and hopeful encouragement. Homer and Joseph confer in secret—they know something we, the audience, do not.

And here we enter spoiler territory. Diana discovers that the mysterious blonde woman she’s been spotting is, in fact, a clone. She then discovers other patients sitting in groups with multiple doppelgangers of themselves. The facility is, in fact, attempting to replace deceased people with clones. Most of the doppelgangers are the failed versions. At one point, she sees Homer caring for the clones, showing deep love for each of them, and he is redeemed in her eyes—mostly, anyway.

Meanwhile, when Joseph’s daughter fails to respond to the treatment, his enthusiasm and devotion turns to disappointment, and then rage, and the desire for revenge. Diana, who seems whole again, escapes with Homer in the confusion of the conflagration after trying and failing to save her clones. The denouement mirrors the opening of the movie in an unexpected and satisfying way.

So, in the end, Homer is revealed to be less of a creep than we might have expected, the couple more solidly in love than we might have originally thought. There are countless horror movies that explore people trying to bring back from the grave people they loved. This is one of the more effective ones. Dripping with atmosphere and intrigue and soundtracked by ethereal dreamlike music and curious old songs, Honey Bunch looks and feels like a classic.

And the pun in the title is the cherry on top of the sundae. 

 

The Seven Orbs

Chapter One

Heirs and Politics

2.

The King sat uneasy on his ancient throne, its sheen long gone, its glory but a memory. Now it was just his favorite chair. Already word of the birth of his male heir was news spreading throughout the three kingdoms, the Eastern Forest Realm, the Western River Realm, and his own, the Realm of the Hills, seated at the base of the Forlorn Mountains. The Chief Counsel entered the throne room and took his seat at the table, across from the King. "Congratulations on the birth of your male heir," he said with a slight bow.

"I believe the Queen was hoping for a girl, as our eldest son, Theo, has first claim to my title." He let the thought settled in his mind a second before bidding the Counsel to convey his news. He sighed, looked at the Counsel soberly, and nodded. The Counsel cleared his throat and began, "Governor Bosque of the East and Governor Aguell of the West are in the waiting chamber expecting to meet with you."

"Is it that time again, dear Georgie? How many times must they hear me dash their request?" The King didn't expect an answer to his questions, nor did The Counsel offer any. 

"And some bad news, I'm afraid. Before his death, The Wizard managed only seven orbs. Not exactly the hundred we expected." He sighed in frustration.

The King asked, "Has my son, Captain of the Guard, been informed to prepare his men?"

"A message was left with his second in command," he answered. 

"Too busy to receive his messages, eh?" The King laughed without humor. "He spends too much time with that wench."

"Perhaps we should avoid calling her a wench in front of the Eastern Governor," he advised sternly. 

"I know, I know," The King fretted. "She might well just be my daughter-in-law soon. Good for politics, but not for our bloodline."

"Indeed," agreed The Counsel.

"Well, they've waited long enough. Call in the Governors." He clapped once and his advisor left to welcome the visitors. 

Love and War

3

"Nearly twenty years ago, our kingdoms went to war rather than share our resources. After the loss of many lives, all in vain, did we agree to share our bounties and live in peace," The Governor of the East explained to those who knew all too well. 

The Governor of the West nodded in agreement and continued, "But even peace came at a price. Of the three Kings, one would remain King to keep the peace, and the other two Kings would become governors over their lands. An agreement, more a treaty of peace, was arranged and we all signed it. As I recall."

"You recall rightly, Aguell," said Bosque. "But as we all know here at this table, the agreement was temporary. We three only agreed that as long as we lived in peace, shared resources, and obeyed the rule of the one King, that one day we would be able to reclaim our lands as our own and resume the Three Kingdoms once more without war but with our current system of free trade. Well, it's been twenty years come Fall, and we do humbly request we weave a new agreement to live in peace as separate lands, each of us to govern their own kingdom."

The King and his counselor gave each other a knowing look. The Counsel stood to talk, but The King with a slap on the table made the advisor sit back down. It was The King who stood. "We are not children here, asking permission of one's parent to leave home. You do rule your own lands, but I rule the Kingdom that includes all our lands. We all share equally, we proper, and we have no war."

"Yet you have an army. We don't," said Bosque.

"As per the terms of the agreement," said The King calmly,  as if to a child.

Aguell didn't stand but spoke with a controlled anger. "Look here, Terria...".

Cutting him off, Terria said scoldingly, "That's King Terria."

Aguell stood angrily and stared back at the king's grim face. It was Bosque who broke the silence. "Then this day, we are still not free. We will waste no more words here. Aguell, we tried once more to reason with this impostor. The peace is no more. Ten days from now, we will reclaim our freedom on the field of battle."

Though it seemed he would say more, Aguell squeezed his shoulder as if to shush him. And Aguell understood. Without any further word, the two governors departed. 

"Just as you predicted, Georgie. War." The King shook his head sadly.

"But The Wizard failed us. All we have now are the seven orbs and one division of calvary and footmen." There was concern in his voice that even The King discerned. "And the governors? What do they have? Nothing. A kingdom of trees and a kingdom of water. Sticks and spit. Do not concern yourself, dear Georgie, for we'll make use of the orbs, and let's not forget, we have a dragon." 

The King did not notice that The Counsel smiled weakly at the mention of the dragon, and after he left the throne room, the advisor said to himself, "My God, what have we done?" 

 Coming soon...

Wisdom and Winsome

4

Captains and Lovers

5

 

The Listed

Chapter Two

He couldn't kill that one. She was too beautiful. She'd be surrounded by suitors day and night. It was too difficult to reach the beautiful. Stick to pretty, he thought. But I know what you're thinking: What is beauty? Truth is beauty, a poet once wrote. Then what the hell is truth? I am truth. Therefore, am I beauty? Does beauty drive a vintage T-Bird, 1966? Restored from the bare bones. Piece by piece. Till that engine 390 V8 roared to life. Three speed automatic. Roomy interior. Space enough to work. To find pretty. Like the one coming out of the library. He knew her. Carmen something. Lestrada? Leonard, perhaps. "Ms. Leonard," he called through the open passenger window. 

"Yes, sir," she said, bowing to look inside the car. "Oh, hi, Professor."

"You shouldn't be walking alone at this hour of the night. Let me drive you to your car?" He smiled his winningest smile.

"Thank you." She got in and set her books on her lap. "Nice car. Is it yours?"

He gave her a funny look.

"Of course it's yours. What was I thinking?" she gently laughed. "My car is in Lot Five."

"Heading there now. Studying for the midterm," he asked without curiosity. 

"Yeah, but I think I'm ready. Just a good night's rest, and I'll ace that exam in the morning." There was confidence in her voice. 

"I'm sure you'll do fine. Carmen, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yep, that's me. Carmen Leonard. You got a good memory, Professor." She  smiled proudly. "You can pull over here. There's my car."

"What kind of gentleman would I be not to see you to your car door?" He pulled into the parking lot, turned left, and put the car in neutral while yanking the parking brake up. "Hold on. Let me get your door."

"Thank you," she said with a slight blush. 

He escorted her to her car, where she unlocked the driver's side and scooted into the seat behind the steering wheel. "There, all set and ready to go home."

"Yes, you are, my pretty," the Professor said with the happiest grin. He reached over and dragged the linoleum knife across her throat. The gush of blood covered the inside windshield and splashed over Carmen's shocked face. "Nothing more to say, I see."

The Professor walked back to his car, removed his coat, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it into the back seat. He'll dispose of it in the basement furnace tonight, and then have a quiet dinner. Indeed she was a pretty one. But that was with make-up. The beautiful ones don't need cosmetics. And she liked the car. That was almost her ticket to freedom, except she wondered how someone like me could own such a car. Naughty. Whatever did she mean by that? We'll never know now. 

He turned the car into the freeway headed for home. He clicked the radio knob and "American Pie" was playing. He sang along while he wiped his face with a towelette. 

 

How I See the Aging of Rock and Roll

Generations by Decade

by Anthony Servante

I've compiled a list of art and music scene by decade, starting with 1890 to 2010, to encapsulate my view of trends being anachronistic from day one. That is, every new fad is already outdated as soon as it begins. Let's begin. 

1890 Lost Generation (Purple Reign & Fin de Siecle Decadents)
1900 Interbellum Generation (Progressives & Union Men)
1910 G.I. Generation (All-Americans & Military Men)
1920 Greatest Generation (Flappers & Boaters)
1930 Silent Generation (Be Boppers)
1940 Swing Generation (Swingers & and Jives)
1950 Beat Generation (Beatniks & Bohemians)
1960 Hip Generation (Hippies & Yippies)
1970 Me Generation (Glams & Disco & Punks)
1980 Generation X (Slackers & New Wave)
1990 Millennial Generation (or Generation Y & Grunge)
2000 Generation Z (or the Tweens & Emo)
2010 Generation Alpha (Hipsters & Beards & Nerd Chic).

Now keep in mind that no generation begins on any one date at any given time. There's a lot of overlap and carry-over. But I think this system works best for pigeonholing. The Purple Reign, for instance, had Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley. The G.I.s had "all-American" songs like "God Bless American" and "Over There". I also like the decade system because then we can see how certain generations hold up to aging. Slackers, for instance, are now in their 50s. 

I go to many Rock and Punk music concerts and old rockers and punks are not a pretty sight, I can tell you. And that's how I look at every new generation--by how they will grow old. Imagine the bearded hipsters when they're in their 40s and 50s still trying to look current and relevant. 

Anyway, I can't say I've been part of any fad or craze, but my heart has always been beatnik in spirit, if not in decade. I'm from the New Wave/Glam Rockers age. I just never wore it. I've always seen every generation in its time as anachronistic, always outdated as their generation blossomed and withered in the same moment. 

Take my pessimism with a grain of salt. Enjoy your youth. Every one of these generations did. Cool, Daddy-O. :)

The Listed

Chapter One

Number Ten

 

Malcolm Barre chugged down the last of his beer and tossed the can toward over a pile of dirty laundry by the basement door. The can struck the cracked antique lamp Malcolm had purchased without asking his wife's consent and rolled against the kitchen door. Next to the can were pieces of torn up photos that Malcolm ripped on one of his drunken binges. He ignored the pictures and popped open another beer can. 

But try as he might, he kept sneaking a peek over to the photos, trying to reattach them in his mind. This piece went with the picture of Bernice holding baby Patricia with Malcolm Jr. standing by her side. That piece showed the Acapulco beachfront hotel where he and Bernice honeymooned. The other pieces were unknowns, just another pile of discards. 

"The bitch," he muttered under his breath, and felt better for it. "How dare her leave me for that asshole ex-boss of mine, Mr. Roget. So what if I spent all my money on antiques. Didn't she realize that antiques increase in value over time. So we were late with the rent a few times. In the long run, these antiques would make us rich." He ran his hand along the crack on the neck of the lamp and sighed sadly.

 Yet she complained that I always brought them but never sold anything, and it was stealing food off the table. She was so dramatic. She just didn't understand the business. Just like my stupid boss didn't understand. I made good purchases for his shop. It wasn't my fault that the customers couldn't appreciate the gems he had chosen. Boss said he'd rather have cheap pieces that sold than "gems" that just sat there. 

I tried to explain to him that all collectors wanted these days was kitsch-- crucifixes that glow in the dark, fiberglass chairs with six legs, and bean-bag furniture. It was no wonder the wicker furniture stores were running us out of business. Then get me those things, Mr. Roget yelled at me. Any sale is a good sale. No sale is just plain dumb. Your paycheck should be coming out of the profits, not my pocket. 

I should have killed him that day. Gutted him like a fish. And her too. Why the hell did she leave me for him?! Damn, he was old enough to be her father's father. Maybe now is the time. They would be here this weekend to drop off my belongings. I'll buy a chainsaw, a hacksaw, and some of that acid stuff like you see in the movies. I'll buy them all at separate stores. Pay cash. Wear a cap and overcoat. Places where they don't know me. No witnesses. Do it right. No evidence. No blood. No hair. Nothing but memories. And they can't convict you for memories. 

I should have done it years ago, on the day she first started nagging me about the beer and bills. Made me wonder when it was she met my ex-boss. I wonder how many afternoons they slept in our bed while I was out making purchases for Mr. Roget. I should have killed them a long time ago. Well, better late than never. 

A grin spread across Malcolm's face like the slice of a good barber  razor fresh off the strap. He stared at the TV in his little cabin hideaway, oblivious to the wrestling match, lost in his little fantasy of murder that played out in his imagination by the sixth can of beer. 

He didn't even notice the noises coming from the kitchen. Not until the wrestling match turned to a commercial about toothpaste. He froze in the seat. Tried to remain silent, so he could hear more clearer the sounds in the kitchen. Two people were in there. He dimmed the lamp light and saw the shadows at the bottom of the kitchen door. One of them was at the door, the other just behind him. 

Then another noise sounded at the window to his right. His eye twitched as he tried to focus on any movement in the dark trees about thirty yards away. The only light he had to help him see outside was his cracked lamp that he had dimmed. All he could see was the silhouettes of branches and trunks. But there was a sound. How dare they interrupt his fantasy. He was about to chainsaw his ex-wife's head off. Then he was in his ex-boss's office about to hack him to bits. 

The kitchen doorknob started to turn. He reached under his seat and found his loaded 38 revolver. Come to papa, Malcolm thought. He switched the light from dim to dark, and fired three shots at the kitchen door. The door squeaked open, followed by a grunt. Someone shouted, Back it up, I'm hit. Malcolm fired two more shots. That's when he saw the two men wearing ski masks and gloves. Both had on similar black clothing. He leveled the barrel at the burglar in front for another shot when all of a sudden he heard the window glass crack. 

He felt dizzy. There was a B-B sized hole in the pane, right in the center, perfectly aligned for a trajectory to his right temple. With his left hand, he confirmed his estimation by touching at the right side of his head. There was a small puncture bleeding out. Bullseye, except he wasn't dead. 

He looked around as if in slow-motion. His gaze settled on a piece of torn photograph. It showed Bernice's sad eyes, tired from crying night after night over her husband's excessive drinking and stupid spending. He was worse than a gambler, the pawn shop guy told him; he was a collector of junk. Suddenly he understood her suffering. She wasn't lusting after Mr. Roget. He was just a friend. My friend. Her friend. He glanced down and saw all the blood pooled by his chair. He dropped his gun into that pool, and it splashed and sank. Or so it seemed.

The two men from the kitchen entered the TV room. One of them opened the front door where three other similarly dressed figures joined their team. Double-check and triple-check, said a female voice. I did already, came the angry reply from a male voice, one of the guys from the kitchen. Well, check again, she ordered. The angry male opened his leather binder. That's him, he confirmed; Malcolm Barre, Number Ten. Targets in play were Bernice Barre and Kyle Roget. Deadline was this weekend, three days from now, Saturday. Either with a chainsaw or hacksaw. Not a 38? the female in charge asked. Not according to our records. Good enough, she said; now let's wrap it up.

Malcolm realized he had been shot with a dart gun, some sort of sedative. Mixed with the booze, he didn't feel a thing, not even as the five dark figures fired lethal darts into his flesh until he was cold dead.

To be continued...